


Of Sunburn and Seashell

by trajektoria



Series: Of Consulting Detectives and Their Son [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Established Relationship, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff, Humor, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Parentlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-01
Updated: 2015-12-01
Packaged: 2018-05-04 10:23:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5330681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trajektoria/pseuds/trajektoria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John go to the beach with their five-year-old son. Hamish is overjoyed, Sherlock less so. John takes a nap.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Sunburn and Seashell

**Author's Note:**

> Big thanks to [captainjennhart](http://captainjennhart.tumblr.com/) who helped me improve the text. You're the best!
> 
> I wrote this fic because I felt really bad and needed something fluffy to cheer myself up. I hope you're gonna like it and it would bring a smile to your face.

There is a huge difference between theory and practice. In theory, Sherlock completely agreed with John that a family weekend at the seaside was an excellent idea. In practice, however, actually convincing him to take a break from work and make him leave London was an incredible feat probably on the same level as persuading a vegan to consume a BigMac. And yet John managed just that by employing a lot of emotional blackmail and constant nagging. Hamish also had a hand in it, telling Daddy with big blue innocent eyes that beach was very nice and fun and pretty please Daddy can we go?

Sherlock's defences finally gave way under the consolidated assault from his most dearests. All his fortifications of excuses crumbled and he had no other choice but to put up a white flag. 

Still, admitting his defeat didn't mean that he would be happy about the situation. Even in summer, when the cleverest of villains seemed to leave the city, a persistent consulting detective could find something to occupy himself with. Being pulled out of London and dragged into a backwater place in the middle of nowhere, but still with swarms of tourists everywhere, was UNACCEPTABLE!

“Yeah, yeah. You've said that already. About six times in the last ten minutes,” John stated with amusement, his hands laced together under his head as he leaned comfortably on a beach chair in his red swimming pants. His eyes were closed, his face bathing in the sun. “Try to relax, love.”

Sherlock huffed defiantly, crossing his arms over his chest. Relax? How he was supposed to relax with the humming of the waves and the seagulls' screeches? At least there weren't many people nearby – Sherlock had forced John to walk about a mile, while carrying all the equipment and Hamish for most of the trek, until they found a spot which was more or less empty.

Hamish sat on the sand right in front of them, busy building a sandcastle with his plastic set – a bucket, a rake, a shovel, a sieve, and a few moulds in a shape of various animals. He and his Daddy wore a matching set of swimming pants – navy blue with a smiling bee at the front. However, the same underwear didn't equal the same attitude to being here. 

The lack of Hamish's architectural skills didn't stop the boy from joyously tinkering with a shapeless heap of sand and proudly calling it 'a castle'. Sherlock, on the other hand, sulked on a chair under a huge umbrella, avoiding the sun at any cost. There was a permanent pout on his face, due to the fact that John had confiscated his phone. If he hadn't, Sherlock would be switching his attention between pestering Lestrade with an incessant string of texts and browsing the internet for any suspicious and unsolved crimes in the vicinity of the beach. Anything to escape this boredom.

“Come on, Sherlock, I didn't put all that sunscreen on you, so that it would go to waste. You're pale as a corpse,” John said, and then added quickly, knowing his husband all too well, “And don't even think of saying that you'd be grateful to see one right now.”

Sherlock snorted, but there was a hint of smirk on his lips and a brief spark of approval in his eyes. His heart soared every time John managed to be clever and impress him. 

“Boring,” he muttered anyway just to keep up appearances, to which John rolled his eyes. 

Hamish, who appeared to be listening to them more intently than they thought, lifted his head. 

“If you're bored, play with me, Daddy!”

“Yeah, Daddy, play with Hamish,” John backed their son up with a lopsided smile on his face.

It seemed that Sherlock was in a jam. No escape now. He sighed. 

“Fine,” Sherlock grumbled and stood up, making a face, even though Hamish's smile always melted his heart. He cast a brief glare at chuckling John, and then joined his son, sitting on the sand right next to him. 

John fondly observed how his Holmeses joined forces at the construction site. Honestly, as John noticed with mirth, Sherlock's presence did little to improve the appearance of the castle. Still, the look of pure concentration on both – so similar – faces was adorable. 

The pleasant warmth of the sun made John sleepy and must have lulled him into a short nap. These forty winks did him a lot of good. When he woke up, he felt surprisingly rested and relaxed. He hummed softly and stretched his limbs, finally opening his eyes again. Sherlock and Hamish weren't preoccupied with the sandcastle anymore, which now lay abandoned, a sad, unimpressive mould. Instead they were playing football. Well, as much as an adult can play with a five year old using a big, inflated ball. 

John blinked, thinking he was still dreaming. Hamish ran about, his tiny feet sinking into the sand, and squealing every time his toes connected with the ball. What was more surprising, Sherlock seemed to be having a good time as well. A genuine and proud smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he praised the little boy for an exceptionally good pass.

John bit his cheek, suppressing a loud “aww”, having to content himself with a smile. Sherlock was an amazing parent. Of course, John had always known that, but so many people were sceptical when they got a baby. 

Sherlock is not cut out to be a father. He'll feed the baby with chemical reagents just to see what would happen. He's so lazy that he'll teach them to change their own nappies. He'll probably show them how to do an autopsy before they learn how to sit.

In your face, all who doubted his husband. Sherlock did his absolute best for Hamish. Yes, sometimes he could be a little overambitious, but he had never forced their boy into learning anything he wasn't interested in. And he wasn't above sharing with him an uneducational activity like kicking a ball if it brought Hamish some happiness. John felt the overbearing need to hug and kiss his husband. 

And he would have probably done just that if Sherlock hadn't turned around in that very moment. John gasped. 

“Sherlock! Your back!”

The detective looked over his shoulder, though from his vantage point he obviously couldn't see the whole extent of the sunburn covering his skin. His back and shoulders were viciously crimson. 

“Come here now,” John demanded, reaching to a bag that lay next to his beach chair. One had to be prepared for everything, having a small child and an unpredictable husband. 

Sherlock didn't even protest. Maybe the burn finally started to hurt once he realised he had it. The detective sat on the sand in front of John, his back to him.

“Is Daddy hurt?” Hamish asked, worry lacing his voice. He pattered after his father and stood now on John's side, his eyes turning from one parent to the other. 

“No, baby. He's not hurt. Daddy's skin is simply very sensitive and he has spent just a little too much time in the sun,” John explained, taking advantage of Hamish's proximity to inspect the boy's body. No, he seemed fine. Thankfully he had inherited the Watsons' genes when it came to skin with its resistance to the sun. Hamish was not burnt, but simply turning a light shade of brown. Good. John smiled at him. “Don't worry, we'll make it all good, yeah?” 

John poured some after-sun lotion generously on his hands and spread it on Sherlock's irritated skin, trying to be gentle. Still, the detective hissed. 

“Is your back burning, Daddy?” Hamish asked, observing everything curiously. 

“A little. But I'm fine, Hamish. Don't worry,” Sherlock said through his teeth, the searing pain like needles piercing his body all the way through to his bones. 

The boy looked at him for a while and then his eyes lit up. 

“Oh, I know!” He exclaimed. “You need something cold for that burn, Daddy! I'll bring you water!” The boy grinned at his parents, especially at his poor, suffering Daddy, and then grabbed his plastic bucket, toddling towards the sea. The spring in his step was telling enough how much he wanted to help ease his father's pain. 

Sherlock bit back a scream when John touched a particularly sore spot, but managed to smile. 

“He takes so much after you.” 

“Our little healer,” John chuckled, nodding in agreement. 

Sherlock turned to look at his husband. 

“Oh, no, not a chance. We're not making him into a doctor. You know perfectly well that with his intelligence and thirst for knowledge he should be a scientist.”

“Sherlock, he's five,” John reminded, rolling his eyes but not without amusement. “Last week he wanted to be a dragon when he grows up.”

“Still, I think it's high time that we think about his future and plan it according to–“

A surprised shriek cut off his words. Both Watson-Holmes heads whipped in the direction of the sea only to witness, as if in slow motion, how their son tripped and fell into the waist high water, a wave swallowing him whole. A heartbeat and then...

“Hamish!”

Their feet stomped against the sand as they rushed towards the sea, desperate to prevent a disaster. Panic gave them wings. Sherlock's legs were longer so he should have been quicker, but what John lacked in physical build he made up in determination. The wind blew in their faces, forcing the tears out of their eyes and blinding them, but it didn't matter. Their vision was tunnelled, fixed on the spot where their little boy had disappeared. 

They both reached it at the same time, shoving their arms underwater and grabbing his shoulders... and being confronted with the very wet and confused face of a five-year-old. 

Sherlock and John exchanged no less confused glances and then stared at Hamish again.

“Mishy, are you alright?” John asked, a little out of breath. 

“Yeah,” he replied simply, water dripping from his hair and nose. But he didn't seem half-drowned, or even scared. Just clueless. 

“We thought you had tripped and fallen into the water,” Sherlock explained hesitantly. 

“No, Daddy!” He laughed, as if that was a very silly idea. “I saw a seashell and I picked it up!” He extended his hand and opened his fist, showing them a big, black mussel. 

As if on cue, Sherlock and John burst out laughing, a tide of relief washing over them.

“You gave us a scare, Mishy,” John said, pressing a hand over his racing heart. 

“Sorry, Papa. I thought that if I give Daddy a pretty seashell he will forget about his back and feel better.” 

In that moment, John decided that Hamish was so sweet that being near him could cause cavities. He picked up his son and gave him a tight hug. 

“I'm sure Daddy feels better already.”

Sherlock confirmed that with a smile, trying not to move a muscle. After the mad run everything hurt. Everything but his heart, warmed by the constancy of love and happiness his family radiated.


End file.
